Get Up
by Epic Insanity
Summary: She's been asleep for so long. If she ever wakes up, who will she be?
1. Darkest Depths

**Hello, all! I got the idea for this right before bed as I was listening to "Get Up" by Barcelona. I probably have a totally different take on the song's actual meaning because I'm guessing, but this is my interpretation of it. Kind of. We'll see how it goes.**

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><p>Darkest Depths<p>

I don't know where I am. My mind is cloudy, trapped in an endless space of black. I feel strange, lost in this new world where I am only a thick wad of thoughts and not a body. Did I once have a body? I must have, for I know this word and along with it ventures others such as touch, heat, heavy, and a strange feelings that comes in a rush and leaves me dazed.

I've been here for a long time. But _here_ is timeless. _Here_, there is no desire to leave and none to stay. I may have been born here and my existence will count for nothing other than existing. I will not progress. This blackish night is eternity.

But if I know what night is…then I must have been aware of day at one point.

Sometimes there is pain. Excruciating pain that drives the blackness to red. But it is quickly replaced with the emptiness again. I almost enjoy the pain because it is something new in this bland world. It makes me imagine that I have a body somewhere and that for a few moments, it is reconnecting with me.

And then I can awaken. Whatever being "awake" means anymore.

There are times when I fancy I'm dreaming, though my state of mind remains unaltered. But it has to be a dream because what I hear cannot possibly be real; what is "real" here, though?

It is a voice, the most wonderful voice I have ever heard before. (Of course, _before_ there has only been the sound of my thoughts. Are there other sounds _here_, I wonder…) The voice says my name. Yes, I have a name.

Christine.

The voice from my dream is so sweet and whispers the gentlest words to me. Later, I cannot recall what they were but the memory makes the black seem less dark. Perhaps this is the closest to daylight I shall ever get.

But the best part is that the voice sings!

If you can imagine the most perfect music in the whole universe, magnify it by an infinite amount, and you shall have the angelic voice that visits me on occasion. It sings many things that I don't remember but know are absolutely beautiful and performed with such emotion that I wonder if the voice can somehow be human.

The voice keeps me sane-though perhaps this blackness is the proof that I am completely the opposite. I hold to it and await it like an eager child being presented a treat. I feel…more, as if I am bigger than a bundle of thoughts and a little bit of pain. Something happens to this world when the voice comes. Thoughts become easier to think, a weight seems to lift, and there is a sudden reminder that I do not belong here.

For I don't belong here, right?

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><p>The man the nurses referred to as "the angry husband" and the doctors complained about behind cups of coffee and closed doors put his head into his hands as he sat next it his wife's hospital bed. In one hand, he felt the ruggedness of stubble and the weary lines of sleep neglect. The other hand was greeted with smooth leather, cold and unmoving.<p>

He didn't like wearing the mask as much as he'd been forced to for the last year. In public he never ignored the reassurance it brought but he'd been in the public's eye for far too long. Nearly 24/7, he was stared at, observed, critiqued, and measured up. The nurses did it shamelessly though the doctors had a bit more respect and only placed their professional gaze on him when his back was turned. He knew it would be worse without the mask, but still it was uncomfortable.

Beneath his hands, the man nearly smiled. Odd to think that he would now find wearing the mask uncomfortable. Christine had altered him like a hurricane alters the landscape near the sea. From the very moment he saw her, she'd begun tearing up his deep-rooted connections with the mask and left a raw, but healable holes in their place. His little wife refused to speak to him if he wore it in their home and considered purchasing a locked safe to keep them in. That is, until he assured her that he could easily break open any lock.

She had looked at him with such malice that he'd shivered in delight and kissed her.

And that was the end of that discussion.

"Mr. Destler," a female voice called from the door. He snapped his hands away and granted her full view. "Your wife's family is here for a visit."

He growled at the news and the nurse scurried away. They were becoming used to his strange mannerisms and knew that no matter how displeased he acted about Christine's family coming in, he'd not stopped them yet.

If Christine wouldn't wake up for him, maybe she would for _them_.

It was only a few minutes before Antoinette Giry and her daughter, Meg walked into the room, dutifully ignoring the glare he sent their way. Though he had admitted them into his wife's room before, the time may come when he barred the entrance against the mother and daughter.

"Good evening, Erik," Antoinette said with her usual clipped tone.

"No need to sound so excited to see me, Madame," Erik hissed, but backed away from Christine's bedside to all them to see her. Meg cowered behind her mother as usual. She'd been afraid of Erik from the moment Christine brought him home. "Look what the cat dragged in" seemed to be an appropriate statement in regards to his welcome there.

"Don't play, boy." Erik despised when she called him that. Did a man of his stature and age really remind her of an immature child? "I've never been excited to see you. Christine may not be my literal daughter, but from the moment Gustave and I married, she became that. And you have no place at her side."

Erik's bright eyes narrowed, looking like slits of gold. The older Giry was being quite antagonistic today. Normally they had a silent hatred of each other playing through veiled threats. But today…

"Christine chose me over that wretched little fool you dragged in years ago! Why are you seething about it now?"

Antoinette took Christine's pale hand made warm by machines plugged into her body. She held it rather fiercely. Meg simply brushed Christine's hair with hesitant fingers and looked away from the arguing pair. "I have spoken with the doctors again, Erik."

Erik's blood began to boil. It was a wonder his skin wasn't rippling at the heated effect. "The last time you spoke with those imbeciles, you nearly killed her!"

"The medication might have worked if given time-"

"And given time I could have lost her!"

Antoinette winced and looked softly at the ground. Erik was surprised to her expression changing. In the background, he noticed Meg had tears running down her cheeks and her hand had stilled in Christine's brown curls.

It was with a hesitant and choked voice that the mother replied, "You've already lost her. _We've_ already lost her."

The hospital room was dashed in cold and painful silence. The Giry's looked away from the husband's confused stare. "What do you mean by that, Antoinette?" His voice was hollow. He sounded scared.

"We've spoken with the doctors about…" She trailed off and brought a hand up to wipe a tear away. The older woman never cried, especially not in the presence of her detested son-in-law.

"About what!" Erik roared, causing them both to jump. It was an odd sight not to see Christine react to his sudden violence. She was such a fragile creature and had no tolerance for even a raised voice. But now she remained as still as ever. Where had his beautiful wife gone? Why wouldn't she come back?

"We're going to remove Christine from life support."

Erik's joints tensed and his fingers curled slowly into fists as if he were weighing the risks of striking Christine's mother. He should do it…even for just thinking such a terrible thought…he should eliminate any voice suggesting such a thing…how could she?

"But she's your daughter," he whispered.

Antoinette released a breath in a sob. "This is not my daughter anymore, Erik. This is a body that will never wake up. She's gone."

"No, she's not!" he raged, "She is still here! She's locked away in her mind somewhere, but we can get her out." He went over to Christine's side in three long-legged steps and took her other hand. It was almost comical to think how they looked like two children tugging on a rag doll they both wanted to play with. "My wife is _alive_."

"I know your nature enough that I knew you'd never agree," Antoinette said, sounding once more like the controlled resistance he was accustomed to.

"My nature? Could you perhaps mean the fact that I love her more than my own life, Madame?"

"No, I'm referring to the obsession you've demonstrated since before your marriage."

Erik chose to ignore her comment and focus on the matter at hand. "You cannot do this. I am her husband and therefore in legal control here. You will never kill her."

Antoinette laughed and even Meg looked upset by the chill it contained. "Oh Erik, haven't you realized it yet? After all, you've had a year to think about it."

His hands twisted into Christine's fingers, seeking the comforting squeeze she might have given at this moment. "What are you talking about?"

"I am not going to kill her, boy. You accomplished that a year ago the night of the crash. What's more, you speak of your status as a husband? I know of more than one court that would question your sanity and ability to think healthily in a situation such as this. Think of it: a man in a mask trying to represent himself in a court full of people. You'd be too frightened to even step into the room."

"I'd do anything it took to protect Christine from you." Erik was resolved, body firm and eyes locking onto hers.

Antoinette motioned to Meg and began to leave the room. "She's gone, Erik. There is nothing more to protect. Let her body at least die in dignity." And with that being said, they left.

Erik stood as he was for many minutes as he sorted through what had just passed. Surprisingly calm, he resumed his place at the edge of Christine's bed, fingers still locked around her hand.

"I know you're there, Christine. I can _feel_ it." He looked at her unmoving face. How he longed for those blue eyes to open and that lovely smile to break out upon her face! He'd give all his possessions just to hear that laugh come back to life and once again pull him up from the darkest depths.


	2. Even the Dust Knows

**I'm going to play around with the narrative here and see what I like. I may end up jumping around throughout the whole thing. But for now, it's Erik's turn. This chapter's a bit short, but I'm exhausted and wanted to get these ideas out there before turning in.**

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><p>Even the Dust Knows<p>

The cerulean tie strengthened its hold around my neck, effectively leaving me breathless, though more from the discomforting claustrophobia it induced rather than actual tightness. I swiftly inhaled air and then let it out slowly as I regained composure. Of all days, today I had to be in control. Oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. Calm in, anxiety out.

I admired the deep blue color in the mirror, focusing on how it offset the black coat just as Nadir said it would. (Blast it, he was right.) My heels drug across the dusty wooden floor as I backed up to…admire my reflection. Christine had once said that there was an artistic air about my appearance. Not that it was artistic in an eccentric way-as I had first thought-but in a deep manner I was honestly not convinced she was capable of until…well. That was a memory for another time.

"The contrast of the mask against your dark hair is striking," she had said while running a hand through aforementioned strands. "Not to mention the sharp lines your tailored suits cast." I could still feel hands trailing down my chest to emphasize the words. "You wear them quite nicely," she'd said very simply, distracting me with her womanly charms as she removed my mask. "And your face…"

I had turned away in shame.

"Your face is quite stunning."

I quivered and allowed the memory to lead me along a tantalizing trail of rose-scented dreams.

"They say that the human mind tries to make order out of chaos, that we must organize what we see into something we know to be true. But your face…I cannot see the end of it." She began to lightly touch the scarred flesh and it felt as if her fingertips were nothing more than the softest of flower petals. "I try to make sense of it in my mind, but I cannot. I feel as if I have to keep looking for no other reason than to see you, to find you in the chaos."

"I am nothing more than a mess," I mumble through the fingers taunting my lips.

"But you are the most beautiful mess I have ever laid eyes upon."

My eyes closed tight and I could feel her searching for a way to get me out of the hole I'd forever find when I took a misstep.

Her voice turned dark and thick, playful but passionately serious. "Really, darling, if you don't want people to stare at you, you must try being a lot less captivating." She moved very close and whispered with a dreadfully wonderful voice into my ear, "I feel as if I must remind you who it is you belong to, sir."

My hands reached out to hold the little seductress to me.

And then my eyes opened.

The only thing there were my shoe prints in the dust and the saddest looking fellow in the mirror.

A buzzing sound came from my pocket. My phone. I silently thanked whoever was calling for keeping me from continuing on a most-likely awful setback in confidence. When left alone with my thoughts, I rarely proved optimistic.

All gratitude vanished when I saw who was calling.

"Nadir," I answered with a clipped tone, turning on my heel in an indifferent manner and exiting mine and Christine's bedroom.

"I'm outside. Are you ready?"

'That's a loaded question,' I thought with a grimace. "Of course. I'll be out shortly."

"Good. The court hearing is in an hour and a half so we'll have plenty of time to-"

"I'm well aware of the time that the judge has set, Nadir," I said before ending the call in the same snappy manner in which I spoke.

I cast one last look over the silent bedroom, eyes lingering on the mirror in the corner and then Christine's hairbrush on the desk, before gently closing the door. The dust particles inside settled back into their comfortable positions, ready to return back to a lengthy slumber.

Even the dust thought that my wife would never wake up.


	3. Victory Over Death

Victory Over Death

Today, there is more sound.

Not just the voice. In fact, it is not present at all. There is something else. _Somethings_ else. Piercing, short noises. Beeps. Shuffling. The light sound of air slowly entering a cavity and exiting shortly after. I try to grasp these noises and wrap my mental fingers tightly around them. It is a taxing effort and soon, I must relinquish the attempts.

It is back into the dark for a while. Again, I do not know how long. It feel short. Less of a pause between my own activity. I begin to sense awareness of..._time_? Is this time?

The voice jolts me from the black. Well, from the denseness of the black-the color never changes. Instead, I feel that the darkness weighs less around me. Am I surfacing? Surfacing from what and into what? If only I could fathom what these instantaneous concepts mean. My consciousness focuses on the voice rather than arguing with itself over what "surfacing" means.

"I'm sorry, Christine." Then there is weeping. It sounds wet and painful. The voice is shaking. I can almost feel it.

"There's nothing I can do. I tried! It's only been a year since the accident-" The voice breaks. To me, it feels like literal shattering, as if this sound suddenly gained physical consistency and then in brittle shards, fell apart. I know that physicality is something I don't have right now. Beyond the rare pain. But it's something I desire, right? I think so...

The voice continues, "Only a year on life support and they already want to kill you. It's murder what Antoinette is doing. Other comatose patients have lasted far longer. Even woken up! I don't know how she convinced the doctors, the judge-"

The next words strike with precision into a place I forgot existed. It's a soft part of my mind where precious memories are kept that I cannot access.

"I don't want her to kill you."

It hurts me to listen. I want to run away from what I hear. But for some reason, the darkness only receeds. It refuses to swallow me back.

"Please, Christine. Please come back. Please don't let them take you-"

I _feel_ something!

I feel something and it does not hurt!

The sensation is dull like I am out of practice, but far more pleasurable than the pain I am accustomed to. I feel soft coolness expanding in five points. It's on...it's on...my hand! I have a hand and I know it is there!

"I love you! I love you and I'm begging you to do something! Please...you were always so much stronger than I. I know you can wake up."

The voice has been desperate before. It has plead and raged and wept and I have sat through it all. But now there is finality. It can be heard in the cracks and edges of the tone. If I do not heed in this moment, I will never again get the chance. Somehow I know this.

The darkness fades and I plunge forward. I am dizzy, afraid, and dull.

A new color.

White, my subconscious names it. White becomes a direction: up. I climb. The black dissipates. It's almost easy. The voice needs me, so I must go. Why was it never this simple before? The voice has used words that strike meaning: kill, murder, take, wake, love, love, love. Words spoken before, but never with such fervor. The glass shards of the voice cut away the dark.

And suddenly, I am surfacing. I surface horizontally on a bed with consistent beeping and weeping. My toes twitch, every nerve itches. One beep skips, then speeds. My hand does a flickering motion, more thought and sight than actual movement.

Eyes open for a brief glimpse and then close swiftly. The white in my head is nothing compared to the blaze of white around me. Eyes water. Water! Wet! An old feeling wrapped in the newness of rediscovery.

The voice speaks again, "Christine?"

What I have done is not enough. The voice brought me to an old-new world. It led me here and I desire to give it more. More dull feeling, more flickers and twitches and tingling. Fingers close around mine and I force movement into two digits. They smoothly contact another person's skin.

The voice is more than a sound. The voice belongs to someone.

The idea is both obvious and surprising. I am in constant conflict. It makes me sleepy. There is black at the edges of my wakefulness.

"Christine! Honey, please! Do it again!"

The black grows as I concentrate on moving the digits once again.

"I love you, honey, just stay with me a little longer. Nurse! Nurse, get in here now! NOW!"

Nothing moves.

"NOW, DAMMIT!"

Hurried footsteps, beeping, exasperated breathing.

"Christine, just one more time. Move your fingers one more time."

I comply, energy nearly spent.

"See! See, she's awake. She's moving and responding!" The voice is ecstatic. Warmth blossoms within. The hand of the voice clenches tightly around mine. "You're doing so good, Christine! You are beautiful and magnificent." Again, the finality creeps into the tone. There is more than praise. There is a pure sense of victory. Victory over death is the sweetest of all successes.

My eyes creep open again, using the last of my energy. I see the voice, connecting him to the hand around mine. He inspires the old-new feeling within me. The voice is crying but he smiles and when he sees my eyes open, everything stops.

He and I see one another. This is more than just sight, though. It is communication. So much...love. I don't understand yet. It's too much, this love.

The blackness at the edges overlaps my vision and eyelids close against my will. My mind is drowned in black again. But this time I know it is not eternal. For I, Christine, am awake!


End file.
